


i've been thinking a lot in moonless nights

by WhimsicalSparky



Category: Evillious Chronicles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, not really sure myself what i'll drop here but yeaa, oh hey!! The Self-Improvement Squad!!, very much a crackship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2020-11-09 00:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20844629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalSparky/pseuds/WhimsicalSparky
Summary: it doesn't repeat, it's a possibilitythey close their eyes and think"this is better thananything that happened in our waking lives"sharing joy and pain— meta, amostia, michelle / little drabbles





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> im slowly, _slowly_ getting my drive back  
im gonna write these as i get myself to write more consistently

He’s staring as if it’s the last time he will see her, and this makes her heart feel both fuzzy and sad. She doesn’t mind the delay. Doesn’t mind how long they stand here, simply staring at each other while everyone else walks towards the door.

She thinks of him and his three names—Amostia, Punishment, Lorenzo—and how they shaped him into who he is today. She thinks of him and the phases of his life—a failed experiment, a secret weapon, a meaningless existence—and feels joy to see how calm he is today, so different from the vicious fury he once had.

She presses a hand to her chest and feels her heart beating. The illusion of being alive when she is not anymore. “I hope we can… see each other again. In the other world, I mean.”

“Maybe, but I won’t be the same person and you won’t remember who I once was,” he says.

“Yeah, but—” she swallows a lump in her throat and ponders if she’s really allowed to feel like this after everything they went through. He’s not the same boy who destroyed the world. He’s not the same boy who found her lost in Lighwatch.

He’s grown so much.

Lorenzo touches her cheek with a gentleness she didn’t know he had. “Hey, have you forgotten rule number two?” There’s a smile on his face.

She giggles. “I won’t overthink things and cause myself to spiral,” she echoes.

“Don’t worry, Michelle. I’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”

“Mm.”

She’s glad his hugs are still warm as ever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a time together, a pleasant time  
small moments of ours  
everything doesnt need to be complicated  
sometimes, most of times  
they are routine, short and sweet

It’s by how he sits on the chair and holds the mug that Meta knows he’s lost in thought. His toe-cracking, his silent sipping, his concentration in staring at a mug of hot chocolate—oh, she feels like teasing him.

She noticed he’s not wearing the armband anymore.

“You’re getting better,” she says the obvious. It’s a happy occasion either way.

He hums in agreement, sipping on the hot chocolate again. It leaves a small brown mustache that he quickly licks away.

“We should celebrate.”

“No reason to,” but Amostia still sounds amused by her idea. “Why waste time and energy in something irrelevant like this?”

“It’s not irrelevant.” Meta runs her hand through his hair. It’s been impeccably brushed and he’s going to complain about her messing up his hair later, but she doesn’t mind. His humility is still the wrong kind.

He looks up from his mug, softly groaning as her nails catch gold strands. Displeased yet he doesn’t stop her. Meta knows he’s come to enjoy this overtime. Minutes pass and he slaps her hand away, growling, “That’s enough for now. You’re gonna make me spill the chocolate, gods-damnit!”

“Okay okay, fine,” she laughs.

Amostia huffs, with a hint of a smile on the corner of his mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's a slow process  
you don't cure with a snap of fingers  
"it still torments you, right?"  
but you're getting better  
we're all getting better  
little steps, one at time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special drabble for meiko's bday today.  
happy birthday, meiko!!!!!

It’s in the past.

The time she writhed in her thin rags, struggling to survive after being sent out of the laboratory, remembering the artificial starry sky that judged her with flickering lights and mechanical humming. The alley being both safe and dangerous, the scraps of food never been enough and often stolen, and yet she persisted.

The time she bathed herself in warm blood, thriving on chaos she and her fellow terrorists brought, with a grin on her face and conflict in her eyes. Uncertainty reigned supreme, creeping on every raid—the uncertainty of victory, of death, of freedom, of how long they would keep doing this before their castle of cards fell.

The time she had her children within reach, first an opportunity to escape prison and earn privileges as a plus, then an opportunity of redemption. Raisa’s offhand comments smiting reality upon her head, she fled with the babies—her babies—to Elphegort, determined to give them the life she never had and had yearned for.

Now, the world is as dead as her.

The apartment is fairly cheap and satisfyingly big; two rather spacious bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen and a living room. Some wishes and regrets require money, though it’s not necessary anymore. Memories could suffice at making shelter, but she doesn’t want to relive her past. Doesn’t want the alleys, Pale’s hideout, the laboratory, nothing nothing nothing. She wants something new, no memories attached so she can create new ones.

She doesn’t care if she’s dead or when she crosses over to the Fourth Period, all her memories will be erased. This is an opportunity of closure, of doing things right for once, of forgiving herself.

One bedroom wasn’t initially reserved for Punishment, but now he sleeps as if he owns it from the very start. He’s done a mess associated with teenagers, which makes sense since he is a teenager—and an angry, rebellious one at that. She’s still getting used to seeing him as his own person rather than Hansel. She often can’t help but see him as Hansel.

He stirs and slowly opens his eyes. Blinks a few times and rubs them. Yawns, “So it’s morning already?”

“Yeah, very early in the morning. Barely 6 AM,” she says.

He glares at the sunlight passing through the curtains, reaching his sleepy face. “Hm, I see,” and he silently gets up. She sighs, annoyed yet glad that at least he kept his underwear. Strangely, he slept with his belt, the holster clearly hiding a gun. Uncertainty, her mind comes up, he feels unsafe. Fair enough.

She grabs his clothes off the floor and hands them to him. “You better be aware I’m not washing these.”

“As if washing is relevant.” He rolls his eyes.

“The one who’s gonna be smelly is you,” she says playfully.

“Fuck off.”

He reminds her of Raisa too and the times they would hang out together and drink, with Meta making jokes that Raisa never understood and playfully cursing Pale, Levianta, the world and each other out. Under the effect of alcohol, it was all fun and games. Even when the hangover hit them hard, they still managed to smile.

“Oy, are you still there?” He snaps his fingers in front of her eyes. She blinks and stares down at him. “Come on! You said something last night about breakfast?”

“Ah yes!”

Sometimes she wonders if he’s here to help her, unknowingly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dreams of mine are usually  
memories from a time i despise.  
but now i can wake up without fear  
because i've got hands  
that can wave them off
> 
> (i can dream of good things again)

_You dream of hands._

_Hands of fire and smoke, hands that destroy, nimble hands unable to grasp at the simplest concepts of life—your own hands as they tear at your delusions and fragile hopes of being loved by a man who never considered you family. Your hands, that have ruined more than have built._

_Through the static filling your skull, you make out voices of too many people, none calling your name but rather "the weapon's name". You answer, you got nothing to lose from a misunderstanding. There is no fire, so they lighten you up. Again and again and again and again—until you open your eyes and ashes of a forest are at your feet._

_The air, heavy with smoke and the spirits' mourning, whistles and whispers at your ears; it gradually sounds less like wind and more like a woman's voice, questioning, "What brought you to this point, to give up everything for this?"_

_You look at your hands. Rough and fire—it's not _yours_, you lost yours—and your tongue stings with a metallic taste. You know it's not mere regret so you say between gritted teeth, "I never had anything to give up in the first place."_

_That's all you are. That's all you will be._

_Light blinds you and you're snatched out of these bitter memories._

* * *

Michelle is sitting on the couch, waiting ever so patiently while reading. Glances up from her fairytale book to smile at him and the slices of cake he brings. She is all gentle morning sunshine and kindness in the simple living room of Meta's apartment.

"Red velvet cake this time?" she says, and takes the plate and fork. She sends a bit to her mouth, frowning slightly afterwards. "Huh, it's—"

"It's bad, I know. It's far from the desired result." Amostia sits beside her and ignores her frown deepening at his response, switching from conflict to sadness. He tasted it earlier so he knows. He's disappointed.

She reaches out to pat his shoulder, careful to not hurt him or dirty his clothes with the fork. "Hey, don't feel down. It's, what, your second try? You'll get there."

"Mm," he hums and swallows the sweet; it tastes like failure.

With hands like his, he's surprised anything edible can come from them. Hands like his are used primarily for destruction, used to spill warm red across debris and the ground. A furrow forms between his brows, and he puts down the plate on his lap. His stomach turns.

And Michelle offers an apologetic smile, which still shines through the concern with gentleness. Amostia doesn't understand how she maintains herself optimistic about this—yet he likes her sort of optimism because it's realistic and doesn't cling to the unreachable. She tries so hard, though. She's always trying.

It's just a cake. He will master the baking process eventually.

"Hey, Punishie," she murmurs that nickname and he smiles unconsciously, "I heard some people are trying to rescue those caught in the Court End."

"I see."

"Maybe you can see your sister."

He chuckles to mask his sadness and anger, "I don't have a sister, Michelle."

Michelle's smile doesn't waver; it glows brighter with renewed enthusiasm. Amostia is confused. She is dainty when standing up but unfamiliar excitement kicks in and she spins swiftly to his side, almost dropping the fork while gesturing wildly. "You do! I mean, almost did. Irina. Irina was supposed to be your sister."

"Yeah, keyword is 'supposed'. She isn't. We aren't related by blood," he bitterly reminds her. Talking about this stirs memories of his fath—_**creator**_, he has _**no right**_ to call himself his _**father**_—and that man is _nothing, __**absolutely nothing to him**_.

She shakes her head. "Don't be like this, Punishie! She's still the closest person you had for a sister."

"We never met."

"Irina and I never met either and yet I still see her as a sister. She stayed with Papa after I died and he did say she was kinda nice. Tried to protect him before Nemesis came."

"But you—"

"—Had your identity stolen? Though it was awful to find out at first, I have no hard feelings for her."

She misunderstood him; she did meet Irina once, back when Ma still existed and Michelle took Margarita's identity wholeheartedly, but he stopped himself from saying it. Her memories are still hazy from that time and she is yet to safely manage the contract's side effects.

Triggering an identity crisis over this… is stupid.

He settles with, "I see," and leaves it at that.

It disencourages Michelle (_fuckfuckfuck_). She sits down, tapping on her clothed thigh with a hand and holding the plate with the other, the fork stabbed on the remaining cake. "Um, do you want me to take these to the fridge?"

"No," he says firmly. Gods, he fucked up, didn't he? Shit. "You…" his tongue flicks out to wet his dry lips, "are you really this hopeful to see her? Irina, I mean?"

She blinks. "Yeah…"

He gives the best smile he can do right now. "You're something else."

And there it goes, tension lifted from her shoulders. She giggles out of relief, "Haha, I guess so."

* * *

_You dream of hands again._

_Hands of ember and incense, hands that try, rough hands that have done things they shouldn't and had no choice over them—those are your hands right now, after centuries of slumber and a persistent feeling of worthlessness. Hands like your own, they never considered a different purpose._

_But now, it's been all discovery. It's not unlike you now to reach out for Meta's firm hands and receive the parental love you've hoped for, the warmness of a half-rigid half-kind love. A love that guides, a love that wishes for the best._

_In time, Michelle's soft hands grasp yours. Your nose tickles with the pleasant scent of nameless flowers. You think you really don't have to be afraid. Redemption isn't a lonely path as long as you have Meta's firm hands and Michelle's soft hands. You are going to be okay._

_"Let's try our best today again, okay?" Michelle grins with a finger over her lips, as if telling a starlight secret. It's not a promise, it's not a declaration of love. It's mere encouragement, which is enough to make you blush faintly. She trusts you that you can do this. This is more than you wished upon the full moon._

_The best part of all is even when you open your eyes to reality, they're not a good dream or delusions—they are as real as you are._


	5. a metaphor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> because you know  
the objective truth is often  
really boring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the lowercase writing is just for style lol isfnsk. this is certainly the most purple thing i wrote for this

i.

nobody knows of the angel-bodied boy who hollers every night for dreams never dreamt and wishes never granted.

boy of obsidian halo on golden blonde hair and wings to cause natural disasters with a single flap; so small in his immensity, still so lethal in every movement. and he never wakes up from his infinite dreams.

he sleeps in the dark side of the moon, away from the snake and the twin dragons, away from the bat and the walking worldtree, away away away—

.

ii.

nobody knows of the witch woman bathed in crimson blood and her unending dances after the children she'd lost.

woman of flowing red and silks and transparent fury, with pearly fangs to bite open men's throats as narrow-minded fools scream in confusion and burn in dark fire. back to the earth, they all go. peerless, unforgiving.

oh, can you hear her wailing? for a future she craves but can't have?

.

iii.

nobody knows of the girl in the depths of turbulent oceans, how she drowns in her own emotions.

girl of stolen dreams, constellations in her eyes and starlight in her hair, even though she's eternally drowning. she tries swimming but the waters push her back—_deep sea garden girl_, the ocean murmurs and she's knocked back to a underwater city, _this is where you belong, now._

_let me go back please_, she says but isn't heard.

.

iv.

the day comes when the angel of obsidian halo falls from the moon and crash-lands with a glorious explosion, and the whole world is engulfed in flames. oh, what do the gods expect from him? an apology? not when one of them was the one who shot him down.

the red witch comes and sweeps in before the angel is crowned demon prince by the gods. in nights like these, acid rain pouring down and people chanting a lullaby of the old, she appears at her strongest.

_i'll take care of him_, the witch says, without a trace of fear, grasping the angel's shoulder firmly. it gives him no escape.

which is better, the black box and shackles or the ever-watchful eyes of the witch? he comes to think that she was sent by the moon to rescue him.

.

v.

the witch's favorite word is felicific; causing or tending to cause happiness—something she hadn't known in life. sometimes she wishes she was felicific, even though she has warcries lodged in her throat and blades hidden right beneath the skin. it's obviously impossible.

now there's an angel on her apartment's couch. he sleep-talks a forgotten goddess' name and pleas for mercy. deep in his nightmares he is a mere boy; powerless, crying and needing love.

when the sun rises in the horizon, he wakes up in her gentle arms and says nothing.

.

vi.

her home country is harsh winters and steel, her house is glittering riches brought by her father, her bedroom is too big for a single person and her bed is like a lifeboat of satin and fluffy pillows. she feels tiny, insignificant before reality's gaping maws. (even if her reality is a mere illusion.)

the demon woman from the clockwork doll still whispers in her mind. forever slumbering shadows still haunt her, reaching out with wispy hands in pursuit for a true soul; but they're just shadows, they have no life of their own, they're memories from fake existences. they can't hope for a soul, and she can't expect to give them anything.

she speaks to her reflection—dreamer girl of periwinkle wedding dress and eyes hazy with delusions she refuses to break out—as quick as she can, before it shifts to another shadow—dreamer girl of sharp smirk and unmatched viciousness.

maybe they're all connected by something: dreaming. they're all dreamer girls.

.

vii.

he lives with his head and feet in the past and with his hands and wings in the future. he has no eyes to see the present, to what he can do today. it's a flaw, of which the witch warns him about. for a brief second he considers her words.

at nighttime nobody can witness him take flight across the aurora borealis and crossing the north pole to fish as though he's a bird of prey. later, he's drenched and he hangs himself up to dry near the sun. in his way home he spots a splash of dark pink in the snow-covered streets—a girl, in clothes unsuited to the weather.

he takes her home. the lack of the heaving fur-lined overcoat renders him faster and he returns before morning.

.

viii.

she doesn't forget the face of the winged boy. she dreams of him and his lazy glare and his beautiful wings spreading for miles, carrying her across the skies like a real angel. she, the dreamer girl, dreams of something different for the following nights. she thinks of thanking him again.

when the god-blessed netsuma meets with her father, she asks her about a blonde angel. _i'm afraid i don't know any angel, dear_, clarith says in a sigh, which leaves her to wonder.

she asks around—the tyrannical princess, the red-dressed woman and her identical ever-cheerful servants, the tailor from a distant country, even the duke of purple while accompanied by the princess' servant. it's the sniper, her younger sister of shared father, who breaks the mystery: _amostia is no angel, michelle. he is a harbinger of destruction._

amostia, amostia, amostia—such a curious name, it rolls weirdly on her tongue, and yet she likes the sound of it.


End file.
